It is so Ordered
by icearrows1200
Summary: America feels the pain of the Charleston shooting, of the impending doom as a rift begins to divide the country. But he can also feel the overwhelming, powerful joy when the country comes together for a reason as simple as love. An analysis of the past week in American news.


The week had been horrific, and to be honest, he never expected it to pass.

The sound of gunshots still echoed in his head, cries for justice and a healing of the past being contradicted by people hugging their ancient heritage to their chest like uncovered treasure, but worthless. A worthless treasure, made of Fool's Gold and plastic key chains and bumper stickers slapped on the back of trucks as they roared down the highways, was being upheld like a false god with its barring blue x and its red like blood.

He had cried that night, until his pillow was damp with tears and snot, and after he flipped his pillow over, he cried on to that side, too. There was no soft slip into dreamland for him, not a rhythmic cadence of breath that lulled him into unconsciousness because his mind buzzed and hummed, a hive in his head. As the country mourned, he did, too. Mourning takes on its own autonomy, swimming through the air and infecting those who learn of its presence like a parasite, seeping off of ignorance until hopelessness has gouged its cavern into the human spirit.

He mourned, and found that tears were drying on his face, evaporating into grains of salt, his eyes red and burning, his head reverberating with his own heartbeat. No more crying, the flood gates had sealed up, but no less did he feel the deep ache twisting like a knife within him. It was the end of the world.

Only months after he had been born, waking up young and bright in Virginia fields, America was dangerously wounded. It bled without end, and when he showed England, tears streaming down his round face, he merely laughed. What was so funny? Why, it happened to every country when they were young- a mark of hard work, of good fortune and wealth. England lifted up his tunic and displayed a scar of his own, distorted and red, above his hip. When America let out a rather unpleasant sob, England cleaned the wound hastily and covered it with some cloth he had left out on the table. It would heal, he explained, but not entirely, never entirely. Some days it would react more than usual, puss oozing out from under the bandage, some days it would split open and gush blood until his haphazardly covered it once more, and other days it did nothing.

In his Manhattan apartment, overlooking the Hudson River, America climbed out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. Opening the fridge revealed nothing of interest, the cold beers and leftover pizza made him nauseous at the thought of eating, the pantry displayed a jar of cashews and potato chips that made him question why he bought them initially. Collecting a glass from the cupboard, he filled it with water from the tap and leaned against the sink, sipping from it as if it was wine. A sudden lurch of his stomach sent the glass hurtling towards the floor where it formed mosaics and glistened under the dim kitchen light. He dashed into the bathroom where he made it not a moment too soon, vomiting into the toilet. If water could trigger that, he ought not to consume anything else for a while.

Wanting to rid the taste of his own stomach acid from his mouth, he brushed his teeth slowly, and the effort was exhausting. The mirror displayed the bags under his puffy red eyes, his hair thin, his back slouched. He lifted up his shirt, found the scar on his right hip bleeding into its bandage once more. Often, it had remained docile, at least for the past forty years, but recently it grew swollen and tender, a gash that desperately needed stitches but was being covered up, shielded by a pathetic strip of gauze. Now, it bled freely, unhindered by the bandage that was dangling from his skin by a thread. He winced, held his hand to the wound, but a little puddle had gathered at his feet.

Looking from his wound back to his face that gave him shame, he found the chip in his tooth, a house divided, a _Congress_ divided. (Oh, if only Hamilton and Jefferson were here today.) Little wounds were the effect of political trauma, and he was the punching bag.

But he was doing this to himself.

Beneath the sink, America rummaged for another roll of gauze, his other hand fruitlessly trying to stop the bleeding. But he stopped, sunk to the ground, finding once more the capabilities of tears because in that moment, America realized that his wound, _all_ nations' wounds were not a natural part of their existence: they were the fruit of his ways, the slave trade, the Indian Removal Act, the objectification of women, the KKK, the racial violence, the bigotry, the hatred. Not things he had done, but things he had _watched_ from afar, a burning forest by a fire he might have seen, might have done nothing about.

For an hour, he sat in the bathroom, the scent of vomit, sweat and blood mixing in a foul union, making his head spin. Like the tears he had shed earlier, the wound ceased to cry crimson drops. While it began to reseal itself, to heal in a distorted, unorthodox way, America fell asleep propped against the bathroom wall, sinking deeper into the void that had been sculpted just for him.

* * *

And just like that, Washington D.C. burst into color.

Cheers and whoops, happy tears, the colors of the sky, the earth, the vast stretches of the world lit up beneath a sun that sparkled and shone with joy above a crowd that waved their colorful flags with victorious swoops. Banners and signs jutted into the skyline like towers, like the bows of violins as they play. Never before had America seen so much _color_.

He stood in the back of the crowd, his heart pounding rapidly, the image of the Supreme Court blurring as tears stung and burned his eyes. Men kissed women, men kissed men, women kissed women and it had finally _happened_ , because after years of various states joining the bunch, of Western Europe legalizing the freedom to _marry_ , it was now the _law of the land_. Children born today would never know an America where they could not marry whom they chose. People dropped to their knees like they had been kicked, holding the hands of their loved ones like _treasure,_ the right kind of treasure. The sky a brilliant blue, the ground a body of colors, of people of all likes, America red, white and blue, the rainbow, crying in the back of the mass, so ecstatic because he never thought this day would come.

"Well, America, it seems you've decided join the modern world."

America let out an involuntary gasp, spun on his heel, "Britain!"

England nodded, smiled, his hands tucked behind his back. His blonde hair gleamed beneath the sun, his face red with heat.

"How did you get here?" America asked. With his hand he took England's arm and lead him from the crowd, across the street and nearer to the Capitol Building where they could hear each other easier.

"Well, I knew the Supreme Court would be making a decision today and there was a fifty percent chance that it would be a historic conclusion, considering your split-down-the-middle politics. And since I'm an avid lover of history and I have a meeting here on Monday, I figured-"

"You're really thrilled, aren't you?" America beamed, taking England's hands in his own, "I'm so… just…" America felt his throat grow pin-hole tight, and he couldn't breathe, felt his nose begin to sting and his eyes well up, "Look at these people celebrating." His voice broke and England gave his hand a squeeze.

"I know. That was rather what it was like when it was legalized in the UK," He laughed, shook his head, "You're going to look back on this, years from now and think, 'Why did I ever stop people from marrying whom they loved?'"

America found his voice, "I've always thought that."

England looked up at him, his brow furrowed in what might have been confusion or even disbelief.

America dropped England's hands and ran one through his own hair, finding it hot to the touch from the sun. He looked onwards at the crowd as they applauded those who had fought for their case, "You know, Alexander Hamilton was bisexual." He sighed, "A lot of historians disagree, saying his letters to John Laurens weren't enough, but I knew. One of the brightest men I've ever met, and he loved another man, but loved his wife as well."

England turned away, his voice wavering as he spoke, "Alan Turing."

"Like the movie with Benedict Cumberbatch?"

"Yes, you nitwit," There was a playfulness to his voice, but still it shook, "Alan Turing did everything- he solved the enigma, laid the framework for the computer- and yet we…" England clenched his fist, "...we drove him to suicide because he wasn't attracted to women."

With a shocking revelation, America realized this was the first time he had seen England cry. His heart ached with a need to comfort him, to make him not feel as he had felt a week ago, empty and seething with pain and fury.

"Britain," America mumbled, not sure of what to do with his hands. He tried to place one on his shoulder, but it seemed awkward, and so his arm just hovered in the air for a moment, "I think I've figured out what the scars everyone has are."

England drew his gaze from the ground to look at America with a discontent frown, his green eyes tinted red, "Scars? What do they have to do with anything? If this is-"

"We get them when we hurt our people. Not us, individually, but when laws are passed or attacks happen on our people," England stared at America curiously, and he continued, "They represent inequality."

England's expression softened, "So last week, when- in South Carolina…"

"Yeah."

"Oh, America, that makes so much _sense_ , I-"

"But look, now," America never had to check prior to know that his scar was very pale right now, blending into his skin- healing, but not gone- as he lifted up the corner of his shirt to show England, "We've done something right, and it's getting better."

By the way England's hand was positioned, America thought he was going to touch it, but he retracted his arm and straightened his back. A chill ran down his back when he looked at England's unfathomable expression.

"Well, Britain," America said, grinning from ear to ear, "I'm glad you came to watch us make history." A man ran past, his flag dancing in the wind as he whooped, several others following behind.

England clasped his hands once more behind his back, "Well, France is also visiting the U.S. right now, and he's turned his hotel room into a 5 star restaurant or something. He wants us over this afternoon, and he invited Canada, too. He spent the whole day yesterday making two cakes for you- one, a consolation cake if it didn't pass, and two, a congratulatory cake, which it seems we'll be eating."

"Yes!" America exclaimed, raising both arms in the air, and England's face broke into a smile.

"I'm proud of you, America- of your whole country, not just _you_ ," England covered quickly, "It's not over yet, you'll still have a lot of issues, and people will try to protest, but I must confess that not all of your citizens are ridiculously irritating, and I think the generation growing up right now is ready for change."

America felt a tightness in his chest, a soaring feeling, "Thank you, Britain. That means a lot."

"I know," He said rather smugly, crossing his arms at his chest, "France's hotel room is here in Washington. Would you like to go there now or would you rather celebrate with them for a while?" He gestured to the crowd, which had raised a huge flag with the equality symbol on it as people ran underneath it.

America sighed deeply, smiling widely, beaming underneath the sky of a nation where you could love freely, "I think I'll go celebrate with them," He watched as a couple kissed beneath the flag, "But… do you want to come with me?"

Face heating up, England turned away, "Oh, no, that's alright, I'd be putting on airs that I ought not to…"

Something clicked in America, something swelled up like a balloon in his chest and instantly he felt such affection for the man standing before him, he who he had left so many years ago, later ally, then friend. A friend who had flown across the ocean with France just to congratulate him for something as basic as human rights, and for him, America was eternally grateful.

"I love you," America extended his hand to England, who found he had no other choice, no other desire, than to accept it.

"I suppose I love you, too," England answered, and they melted into the crowd, cheering and laughing because the world had been made better.

A week ago, America would've never thought that the nation would soon march with pride and joy through the streets- he thought he was falling apart, a house divided, that no good would ever come to his people.

But now, Americans could marry whom they loved, gender and old traditions held no boundaries, and when he looked at England, dancing and cheering among his citizens, his heart held no boundaries and soared overhead like a lost balloon. Hatred fell, love rose above. The country loved, and he _loved_ with such a wild passion that colors were brighter, the sun hotter, his heart stronger.

Beneath a beckoning flag that bore the colors of all life, England found him, and in a way that was a long time coming, premeditated but not planned, they kissed, and the world erupted into fireworks.

 _It is so ordered._

A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this. The plot was a little rough, I guess, but I felt the need to write something when I can't be there in my country in the aftermath of those awful shootings, the intended removal of the Confederate flag, and finally as same-sex marriage is legalized. A very historic week, indeed.

Rest in peace to those who have been assasinated at the awful hand of racism.

Congratulations to those who can now be wed in all fifty states of the U.S.

Reviews are very appreciated. :)


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